We'll Always Have Paris
by 875265
Summary: What happens when fun and fast-paced nights in the kitchen of the most famous and acclaimed restaurant in France go awry? When the lights go out and love turns into a recurring nightmare? Brief yet rich vignettes detail the ups and downs of a tempestuous relationship against the backdrop of Goodness me, regardez à Paris.
1. Chapter 1

**Granted, this was not the first time she's done it, but** I must admit there were times when it really got out of hand. Par exemple:

I had been chopping vegetables for the scampi that needed to go out. A world-renowned critic, Absolon, was coming to the restaurant this week, prepared to give us a Michelin star rating, and everything in the meantime had to be perfect. Even though my nerves likened to get the better of me like always, I was ready. With the rat in my hat, anything was possible.

She, however, was never just ready; she was flawless. A true perfectionist. I'd watched her from my post several times before-sautéeing, flipping, tossing, handling ingredients with ease. I stared, with my mouth hanging wide open. I even envied her sometimes.

This night, however, everything went wrong. Everything I did, anyway. The tomatoes were not sliced right; they were too thick, not sliced thickly enough. But I had been following the book this time, memorized the steps to a T. Anyway, it was the rat doing it all, not me. She showed me her method, in the midst of all the chaos, and I was grateful. I replicated her movements and almost got my finger sliced off. I tried to defy the rat in my hat's frantic yanking on my hair and tried to do it her way, and a sweat even broke out on the back of my neck, but in the end, it was useless. The knife landed on my hand this time.

I went to go run it under some cold water as she looked for a rag to wrap it. Skinner poked his head out. "What is all this?" he demanded. "We got customers out there! _Vite!"_

"Y-Yes, chef! Sorry, chef!"

Skinner's eyes narrowed and he slunk away to his office, probably to pace and agonize over the critic like the rest of us. She came over and tightly wound the cloth around my now-useless hand.

"Sorry," I mumbled.

Don't do it again, she mouthed.


	2. Chapter 2

**After a long night of cooking, I** invited her to my apartment to watch Paris from the balcony up above with a bottle of blackberry wine. She came early, throwing her bag on the sofa and kicking her shoes off, observing the quaintness of the place. She said that this was something we could do every Saturday night, if I was game for it.

I poured her a glass and massaged the spot on my head that had been yanked all day by my rat. I rubbed my shoulder where earlier that week I had been whaled on for boiling the noodles a second too long. Again. Guess the pressure was really on.

She snuggled against me and I rested my chin on her head as we watched the couple down below chase each other and make out under the bright lights in passionate amour.


	3. Chapter 3

**The rat stared into the mirror with a** mixture of confusion, concern and complete horror. My right eye was now purple. My taped-up nose might as well have been hanging on for dear life. My lip was split down the middle. My clothes were on, but I knew that bruises had started to form on my shoulder.

I smiled weakly, slid on sunglasses and gave the story; I hadn't been looking where I was going on my way to work and tripped over my own two feet and fell right down the stairs. _Clumsy me_. The rat's expression didn't change.

I put my hat on with him inside it. "A votre santé," I teased and swiped the keys on my way out.

I imagined ignoring his _Et toi,_ if rats could talk.


	4. Chapter 4

**In the sweet, sweet solitude of the** pantry, there was nowhere to go and nobody around to hear anything. The critic had come and gone and had given us two stars. After screaming for nearly half an hour about my tendency to misplace things and how that might have contributed to this disaster, she started to hammer in (not literally-thank goodness for that). No but pots, pans, the wooden spoon, ladles, anything you could think of and more would have to do.

When we stepped outside, Skinner reamed us both out, demanded to know who was responsible for knocking what over. Her eyes slid over to me, and my hand instinctively shot in the air.

"We were messing around. I toppled things over. I… it was an accident." Of course I was incapable of looking anyone in the eye.

That seemed to satisfy Skinner as he stalked off, muttering curses under his breath about the staff and his lack of luck.

 _You and me both, boss._


	5. Chapter 5

**In an outdoor caf** **é** **, the escargot** arrived swiftly, piping hot. Pretty delicious. I mean at least I thought so.

She dunked a snail in the butter, remarking that she could do much better. I could do better too, if I applied myself.

I have a few specialties up my sleeve, I said. I said as the son of Gusteau, I should know something about the craft. That's what I said. That's why I was here, wasn't it?

She nodded. But was I improving? It wasn't enough to be the son of a famous chef; I had to always, _consistently_ strive for perfection.

But isn't perfection kind of a fallacy?

Nope. Not for me. And of course you knew this when you met me. She brought the napkin to her lips. It doesn't even matter.

Then why'd you bring it up?

She shook her head, not wanting to make a scene in front of all these nice people.

I didn't want to rat him out (ha) but I'd tried my master's cooking. It was beyond anything I've ever tasted before. Critics raved. Even Skinner approved. He made me believe in food again. I shrugged. Maybe I'm not the one who needs to improve… I muttered.

She smiled and cocked her head, daring me to repeat myself. I did. She flipped the table, scattering our drinks and snails all over the rue, garnering a few startled cries.

I tried to run after her, but I got stuck with the tab.


	6. Chapter 6

**As I was about to hop into the shower the** next night, the door swung open. She came barreling in like a bull out of a chute and scared me half to death. She had forgotten her bottle-cap necklace over here days ago and was not about to leave without it. Her eyes swept over my body and she froze.

The shame and humiliation of being nude-in front of, well in front of anybody-engulfed me and I snatched the towel off the doorknob.

"Did I…" She swallowed. "Did I do that?"

I glanced out the window. Golden light filtered into the room. I could see through the slit in the curtains that it was going to be quite a night in Paris.

The tears fell in no time. She was trembling and, I'm so _sorry_ she kept saying over and over. I wasn't brave enough to ask why. I walked over and put my arms around her. "Shhh, it's okay. I'm okay."

I caught sight of my rat watching from a crevice in the wall. He just gave me this withering look and crawled back inside, shaking his little head.

"Come on." I kissed the top of her head. "It doesn't hurt, I promise," I tried again, my voice sounding thicker and distinctly different. Nothing was working. "I love you." I was begging by this point. "There's no need to… please don't cry… " And then tears flooded _my_ vision. This was getting us nowhere.

So we just kind of stayed like that for a while as all the hot water ran out in the bathroom.


	7. Chapter 7

**I felt a little better after following her to her** place, getting a fresh shower and getting all bandaged up, which I also enjoyed. I lay my head in her lap and she touched my face tenderly and swore it would never get out of hand like that again. And I believe her, I do.

We talked a little while longer. And we vowed to become better, both at our craft and to each other. And we ate the bruschetta that she made by candlelight. And we continued to have Paris.


End file.
